He’s in front of me a moment later and I take his hand, press it to my belly. “What?—”
“Shh. Just wait.”
He goes still and the baby kicks and?—
“Is that?—?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s the baby.”
We stand like that, his palm flush against me as the baby kicks, as I count those little taps and pushes, the flutters Leo can barely feel.
Until finally the baby quiets down, falling asleep or shifting positions to where we can’t feel her any longer.
“Fuck, Mama,” he rumbles, cupping my jaw and turning my face up so I can meet his gaze. “That’s what you’ve been feeling?”
I nod, throat suddenly tight.
His forehead settles against mine. “Fuck,” he whispers again. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
Then he’s kissing me, our lips molding together in the sweetest, gentlest kiss I’ve ever been lucky enough to be given. Gentle and slow, languorous and slick, on and on and on it goes.
When he pulls back, I don’t gasp in air, desperate to breathe.
I inhale slowly.
Then sharply when he kisses his way along my jaw, down my throat, laving at the dip at the base.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Mine.”
He nudges the strap of my dress down, then the other, his mouth tracing over my exposed skin.
My collarbone, the tops of my breasts, pressing his face between them and nuzzling gently. “Leo,” I whisper.
“Mine,” is all he says in reply, reaching beneath my arm and tugging down the zipper.
The material parts slowly, and a tug has it pooling at my hips, another skating down my thighs to puddle on the floor.
My breasts are larger and the rest of me is as well, rounded and thickened and maybe I might feel insecure at how much I’ve changed over the last few months if not for the heat in his eyes, the gentle way he traces my curves, his soft groan as he cups one of my breasts through my bra, lightly runs his thumb over my nipple.
Pleasure shoots through me like lightning, and it’s only been weeks since I’ve had him last, but right in this moment, it feels like an eternity.
“I need you,” I murmur.
Or maybe beg.
But he doesn’t move faster, doesn’t even take off my bra.
He just…worships me.
Long, slow strokes of his fingers, chased by his lips and tongue. Only when I’m a ball of sensation, every cell on heightened alert does he undo the clasp, push down my underwear.
I’m standing in the kitchen, every flaw illuminated by the fluorescent lights overhead.
But he still looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman on the planet.
Even as I’m thinking that, he’s banding his arms around me, kissing me—albeit not slowly in the least this time—as he sweeps me up and carries me down the hall.
Softness on my back, a hard body pressing me into the mattress as he kisses me and kisses me.
